


the mousy girl screams: violence! violence!

by miehczyslaw



Category: Chainsaw Man (Manga)
Genre: Background Character Death, Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Grooming, Implied Sexual Content, Manga Spoilers, canon compliant until chapter 83 i guess, dubious consent (at best), the gore of Love and all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miehczyslaw/pseuds/miehczyslaw
Summary: After a while she kisses him, obscenely tender (almost human.)Denji could rip her lips off. He doesn’t.
Relationships: Denji/Makima (Chainsaw Man)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	the mousy girl screams: violence! violence!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reveire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reveire/gifts).



Attraction is something that goes a bit like this: Girl meets boy. Boy likes girl at first sight. Girl says, “Give me the life of everyone you care about and in return I'll forever feed you dog’s food, okay?” Boy kneels in front of girl, smiling, and says, “Woof, woof.”

X

But this happens later.

This Denji prefers to ignore.

( _Ignorance is_ bliss _, kid_.)

The thing is—

X

He doesn’t hate her.

The death sentence that he brings with him everywhere— wrapped around his neck not so much like a hanging rope but like a strap with a plaque and everything but just as lethal— can be explained into this to anyone who asks.

(except that corpses do not speak).

He really thinks that his life would be easier _if he could_ hate her.

Denji knows hate. He is capable, hypothetically speaking, of feeling it himself. But Denji knows affection, too.

Therein lies the problem. Maybe.

It’s because

(his braincells cannot tolerate both emotions simultaneously and short-circuit when they try and then there is no room to even consider sadness, and isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?)

Denji knows of Himeno’s lips still without the make-up of vomit against his and of Power’s knees pushing into his back— the two of them wrapped in their sheets every night— and of the drag Aki takes on each cigarette when talking— his gaze half melting even in the middle of snow— and of beaches kissed with fresh water after being bombed and of a promise to flee together curling up in the sand like a snail resigned to death and of petals between its teeth when it wasn’t fulfilled.

He knows about, “I like your dreams, Denji. Live and dream some more.”

And hate is more than rotten inside as _to be worth_ to know something else about it. Denji has never been very ambitious.

X

At the end:

There’s blood under their feet.

Neither of them is hurt.

Makima cleans all the blood.

(“Why are you crying, idiot? I’ve never seen you cry—”)

(“Happy birthday Denji.”)

Oh, the one who dares to hate her.

X

“Who is a good boy? Who is it?”

“Am I a good boy?”

“You’re a good boy! Yes. Yes, you are.”

And good boys have the right to be kissed by Makima on the tip of the nose and behind the ear and one more time in the middle of the mouth— ajar without any key or padlock.

And the good boys have the privilege to be touched by Makima in their hair and arms and torso, Makima’s caress like a cutting knife about to perform an autopsy on still warm flesh.

And good boys don’t bite the hand that feeds them even if it has filled their entire playground with not so foreign bones and the buzz of flies as dropping bodies and rodents eating their tongues.

No, not at all.

Good boys are _loyal_.

“Are you loyal to me, Denji?” Makima asks. Denji feels his heart swimming in his own blood.

(but remembering blood reminds him of—)

(besides swimming is something that—)

(and his heart is already—)

“Sure,” he says instead. “I am a good boy, after all.”

And although it’s true, sometimes Denji wishes it could rust into a lie.

The door is almost open.

Makima doesn’t stop watching him.

After a while she kisses him, obscenely tender (almost human.)

Denji could rip her lips off. He doesn’t.

X

Because her smile is a little too white and her doll-eyes a little too rotten and her voice a little too sharp and her hands a little too heinous.

Makima is a mermaid who lives under boiling water and Denji may have learned how to swim— but he still doesn’t know how not to burn himself.

X

“Such a good boy...”

(her words like butterfly wings that break the wind)

(and his skin so hot, so hot and his fingers _so clumsy_ and his heartbeat like cross country bullets)

(and— ah. _Ah, ah_.)

There is truly no sadness here.

X

Because Makima’s teeth are cotton soaked in anesthesia and they numb the pain wherever they touch him as she rips out his vertebrae’s bones one by one—

“I don’t want you to die of love Denji, die of me,” she says on the edge of her bed, later.

And if Denji ever looks at his spine outside of himself, he would discover that it’s shaped like a chainsaw.

(as another smile, not so liar).

But the shadow of his shadow remains horribly lonely.

(Is this the dream you wanted from me, Pochita?)

And there where Makima is not it’s very _cold_.

(he dares not hate her.)

So Denji lets out a bark, by way of nodding.

And after a minute Makima laughs, and laughs again.

X

Love is something that goes a bit like this: Girl meets boy. Boy bleeds for girl, bleeds until there is not nightmare left in his veins. Girl says, “My violence lacks love.” Boy hugs girl, and says, “It’s okay, I feel enough of it for both.”


End file.
